


i say, this is that you do to me, my love

by IronButterfly



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, also thorin's quiet pining comes to an end, idiots coming to their senses, painting a room together trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:45:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronButterfly/pseuds/IronButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead, he just stands there, his put off look becoming something else altogether, his eyes on Bilbo’s, until Bilbo wonders how he’d never seen this before, never noticed before, how happy Thorin can look, how at ease, and also how lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i say, this is that you do to me, my love

**Author's Note:**

> This was written really quickly, not beata-ed or even that heavily edited, because frankly, I should have been studying, instead of writing this.
> 
> If there are any terrible mistakes, let me know!x

Later, Bilbo won’t remember how that particular day even started. Only that it began as any other day at Bag End, with him tending first to his garden, tidying the living room, making breakfast. And Thorin dutifully following around.

Later, he won’t remember what’s prompted him to take up the mad business of painting the walls of his old bedroom, before leaving the house to his cousin, for good. Won’t remember how long it takes, before Thorin joins him, with his long hair pulled back into a loose pony tail, and him wearing a blue tunic and a pair of plain trousers.

 Later, he won’t remember how long they paint together, before a drip of paint lands on Thorin’s face, who’s too preoccupied with pigment application to notice.

Bilbo will remember that he’s the first to laugh, though, not resisting the endearing image of Thorin with a smear of fresh white on his cheek, right above his beard-line. Bilbo expects some sort of retort, an indignant huff (something Bilbo earned quite a lot, during their journey) or a dab of paint to be flung at him in retaliation – but no, Thorin doesn’t even join in the laughter.

Instead, he just stands there, his put off look becoming something else altogether, with just a touch of hesitance – always so hesitant when it comes to the hobbit – his eyes on Bilbo’s, until Bilbo wonders how he’d never seen this before, never noticed before, how happy Thorin can look, how at ease, and also how _lonely._

The answer comes to him in a rush and he has to swallow down the feeling. In some sad way, he already knows. Knows the deep scars the war and the dragon sickness have left on his friend, knows the burden of solicitude and responsibility the dwarven prince had to carry for decades. Knows of the sorrow and guilt Thorin holds in his heart still: sees it in the way he acts around his sister-sons, in the way he still can’t bring himself to look Dis in the eye, in the way he avoids nearing the vaults, where the Arkenstone is buried deep within. Sees it in every pained gaze that lands on Bilbo, despite his greatest efforts to prove to Thorin, that all is well and forgiven.

Even now, as Thorin’s cheeks tint with mirth and the corner of his mouth twitches upward, almost as if he can’t help it, he still looks resigned. He looks, as if he’s making a mental decision to try and take whatever happiness he can in this moment, as if he’s trying to forever imprint these precious seconds in a well-guarded corner of his mind. He’s looking at Bilbo, as if he’s hung the moon for him, and personally arranged the stars around it. And Bilbo’s throat tightens around a silent gasp, because that, that open display of raw emotion, the vulnerability, the trust alone, could be the end of Bilbo. Suddenly he feels tremendously protective of the dwarf, who’s gazing down at him with such rapturous devotion, the hobbit wants to weep.

 Bilbo will remember making the same decision.

He will remember reaching out, saying: “Here, let me,” will remember carefully thumbing the paint from Thorin’s cheek, will remember saying: “Thorin-“

Bilbo kisses Thorin, and later he will remember the feel of him, the mild scratch of his beard against his smooth skin, the grunt of surprise he lets out, which soon dissolves into a pleased little sigh, followed with pliancy and eagerness. And this puts an end to Bilbo’s doubts, his self-denial, his confusion, because Thorin’s large hands come up with an air of caution, as if wary to accept a gift, lest it be a vision of his imagination, to trail over Bilbo’s shoulder blades, to feather over the nape of his neck. And Bilbo feels his skin burn, everywhere that Thorin’s touched him, everywhere.

Bilbo will never forget the taste of him, the honeyed tea and the breath of the pancakes from breakfast, accompanied by the initial sweetness of Thorin’s mouth. And if that is not the most heady bouquet of favors Bilbo’s ever felt –

Bilbo will never forget the smell of him, either: the distinct smell of soil and pipe weed and something so uniquely Thorin. Bilbo could recognize him by his scent alone, would know him blind. He will never forget the smell of the paint, because memory is funny like that, and in that moment Bilbo’s sure that the sharp chalky smell of the paint will always bring a smile to his lips, and a bit of a flutter in his chest. And, Gods, he hopes it does. Hopes that this moment gets engraved upon his brain forever, hopes that time does not alter the realness of it: the solidness of Thorin’s chest against his, their lips meeting in a gentle kiss…the smell of the wet paint.

Thorin would never expose him to the threat of having to paint anything again, though, Bilbo’s mind supplies helpfully, but that of course would pass only within the realm of his dwarvish kingdom, because king or not, he is in the Shire now and that means –

Bilbo breaks off his train of thoughts in favor of folding his arms around Thorin as best as he can, holding onto his braids and pulling him close, proceeding to do what he suspects should have been – could have been – done a long time ago. For both of their sakes.

Time is funny like that, too.

 Bilbo will later wonder how much time they wasted, months and years spent too far from one another, will wonder if they could’ve managed this sooner, if only they were a little braver. Bilbo knows exactly how long he waited for Thorin, but he doesn’t know how long Thorin waited for him. He could not ask him that, and neither could Thorin.

Later, Bilbo will remember tracks of paint and presses of fingers, long moments of looking each other in the eye: Thorin looking at him, a question in that gaze tearing Bilbo’s very soul apart. A question, Bilbo vows to erase, because Thorin shouldn’t have to ask, shouldn’t have to ever doubt how Bilbo feels about him. Because Thorin’s forgotten that he doesn’t need to, doesn’t need to be indestructible, that he’s allowed to feel, allowed to take what he wants, that _Thorin is allowed_. And perhaps…perhaps it is Bilbo’s fault that this wonderful silly dwarf doesn’t understand why Bilbo’s kissing him, that he loves him.

Bilbo will remember the lateness of this realization, because he decides right then and there to spend the rest of his days making amends, fixing the question in Thorin’s eyes, and the drip of the paint on Bilbo’s thumb is  just the brave beginning. Later, Bilbo will remember coloring Thorin with kisses and brushing the answer unto his skin with his mouth and hands. Will remember Thorin filling the space between them with words, mumbled and murmured, some in a language Bilbo doesn’t recognize, words just for Bilbo’s ears, words that might not make sense right now, but Bilbo knows that Thorin will repeat them, will draw patterns in the air with his words and promises, until Bilbo has not a single doubt in his heart. And Bilbo will repeat his own promises, will coat Thorin in them and their sentiment until they make sense, until Thorin believes.

 And later when neither can tell where Bilbo ends and where Thorin begins, when they’re lying side by side, Thorin will say: “I-“ and reach out to touch Bilbo’s cheek, and say: “Bilbo, I-“

 And Bilbo will open his eyes and stare into Thorin’s, and interrupt his words: “I know.”

Because Thorin doesn’t ever need to say it, and just because love is funny like that, Thorin will say them all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> But yeah...the initial purpose of this story, was to make up a scenario where Thorin would have to gather his hair into a pony tail, and the rest just worked with it, I guess.


End file.
